


Unintroductions

by sebald



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 04:03:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12050898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebald/pseuds/sebald
Summary: Katya and Alaska are not well-versed in proper introductions. Luckily, Brian and Justin are.





	Unintroductions

**Author's Note:**

> Written and submitted to AQC over a year ago, before All Stars 2 aired, so the dynamic here isn't yet informed by All Stars and everything after that.

Brian spits his toothpaste out into the sink, watching it swirl down the drain.

He wonders when it loses its color, when it turns from bright blue gel to white froth. With a smattering of red sometimes, if he brushes too hard. He wonders why they bother producing toothpaste in sparkling colors in the first place. It doesn’t really matter, does it? It all turns to spittle in the end.

“The colorful allure of consumerism, comrade,” he tells his reflection, affecting a slight Russian accent. Affecting Katya’s voice, perhaps, but these days he’s not really too sure where Katya ends and Brian begins.

It used to be easy. He was just Brian, then he put on his terrible wig and even more terrible makeup and voila, he was Katya. She does a gig. She goes home. Hair and makeup come off. Brian goes to bed, wakes up in the morning, goes to work.

Then Drag Race happened, and Brian had to learn how to be Katya even when he’s out of drag.

They’re on their thirteenth out of forty tour dates now, and truth be told, he finds some solace in Katya. He’s almost grateful that she’s become such an inescapable character, because she keeps his thoughts occupied. Without Katya, he’s not so sure how he’ll fare night after night in city after city. It’s exhausting beyond comprehension, but Katya’s an endless well of energy, because she feeds off of the crowds. And if Brian can borrow some of that to carry on, very well then. Blur the lines some more. She is he and he is she.

Sometimes, though, he’s afraid that he’ll lose himself to her completely.

Boring his eyes into the mirror, he wills himself to believe that at least, in this moment, he is Brian. He is Brian and his teeth are clean and he’s going to bed.

* * *

“Turn it off, Lasky,” Justin hears Aaron groaning from the doorway. He makes a face before turning his phone camera off. No After Show for tonight, then. 

“Sorry,” he says, beckoning the blond into their dressing room. “I didn’t think you were still weird about getting filmed.”

“No, no, it’s not that. I’m just really tired tonight and Chad and I had a row and Michelle won’t stop yapping at me for having a bump with Adore even though Adore’s a grown-up and can think for her goddamn self and I might be coming down with a cold and–-I’m sorry, it just hasn’t been the best day,” Aaron sighs, then he puts on a long-suffering smile and begins wiping his paint off. “I just want to clean up and go to sleep.”

Justin nods understandingly, biting his tongue on a gentle retort about the coke use. He had to leave Aaron to get clean, after all. It wasn’t his battle even if he wanted it to be.

They settle into companionable silence as they take their faces off. It’s so familiar, because they’ve done this for years, sit beside each other and dab into a shared tub of Albolene, rubbing Sharon and Alaska away until Aaron and Justin emerge. Only now it’s different, because Sharon and Alaska have grown up, and Aaron and Justin more so.

And they don’t share tubs of Albolene anymore, of course. Though Aaron still swipes from Justin’s wipes just because he can.

“Lask,” Aaron starts, sounding hesitant. Justin sits up straighter as he turns to him. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“That whole After Show thing.”

He tilts his head, a little confused at the question. “I just let the camera run for a few minutes, then put it up online.”

“No, I mean–I keep trying to do all these things the kids are into, the periscopes and the Facebook lives and the snaps and… I feel like I can’t get it right. What do I share? Why should I share anything? Why should they care?”

“I don’t know why they care, but they do, so… give them what they want.”

“But what do they want?”

“Whatever you want to give them,” Justin says. “You don’t have to put yourself all out. You don’t even really have to put yourself out there at all. The After Shows aren’t anything about me, really. They don’t know me any better for watching it. They just know I like to sit around in full Alaska face after the gigs. That’s it.”

Aaron regards him quietly before speaking. “And here I was thinking that the key to it all is to make your life as accessible and relatable as possible.”

“I mean, that might work too. But I find the false sense of intimacy convenient. I don’t do anything on the After Shows that I wouldn’t do onstage or on TV or anything, but since it’s backstage it gives off a sense of letting people in.”

“So you’re a fraud, is what you’re saying,” Aaron says with a waggle of his non-existent brows.

“I prefer to call it a long-form improvisational character piece on artist-audience relations in the age of virtual celebrity,” Justin grins. Aaron rolls his eyes but gives into a laugh. “But honestly, Sharon, don’t overthink it. You’re interesting whatever you do. That’s more than enough.”

“Well, you are, too, Lasky.”

Justin isn’t sure if he believes him. 

* * *

Their flight is horribly delayed, and the queens have glumly accepted their fate for the night, settling down into their airport chairs for as good a night’s sleep as they can get.

Brian’s feeling zippy, though. Almost bouncing in his seat, he looks to his left and sees Jinkx completely dead to the world, slumped onto the shoulder of her equally knocked-out assistant. Next to them, Detox is leaning on a drooling Adore. Sharon and Chad are also dozing off. Ginger, Michelle, and Alaska are sitting upright, attempting to hide their slumber beneath their oversized sunglasses. Their tour manager Peter has unapologetically occupied three seats to get himself horizontal. Brian sighs. If Trixie was here, Brian would have no qualms about disturbing her peace just so he could have some company.

Out of boredom, he sinks down into his chair and keeps staring at the three blind queens, Michelle Visage very much included. A few minutes later, her head starts tipping forward, betraying what her sunglasses have been trying to hide. Brian chuckles to himself and brings his phone out to take a picture.

“Michelle’s gonna kill you,” Alaska warns suddenly.

“Jesus,” Brian says, almost dropping his phone. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Nah,” Alaska says with a laugh, before standing up and stretching. “You wanna get something to eat?”

“Do they serve ass around here?” Brian inquires seriously, prompting Alaska to laugh again. It’s so remarkably easy to make Alaska laugh, which must mean something because Brian’s not entirely unaware of how easily he himself gets reduced to a quivering mass of flesh and laughter.

Brian wonders if Alaska really finds him funny, or if he’s laughing out of good will. Pity laugh for the pitiful comedian. Then he wonders how sincere he is himself when he laughs just a little too loud and a little too long at the simplest things. Then he wonders why overthinks everything.

“You want some ass, just wake Adore up. I’m sure she’s down,” Alaska quips, snapping him out of his thoughts. “I know there’s a Starbucks nearby, is that okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, falling into stride next to the tall queen. He’s hyperaware of the fact that this is the first time that they’ve been alone together. They’ve known each other for a while, even did All Stars together, but there’s always been someone else in the conversation, or at least in the room, to serve as a buffer. He’s not quite sure how to proceed. Alaska has proven a bit hard to talk to–he’s surprisingly quiet most of the time, preferring to react to other people’s conversations, instead of running them.

It doesn’t help that Brian’s always been something of a fan. Alaska’s reserved nature had shattered the illusion of the filthy, crazy, intergalactic persona, and Brian couldn’t figure out how to reconcile the real Alaska from the Alaska he’s built in his head. 

“Katya,” Alaska drawls, going soft on the “t” and pronouncing it entirely wrong. He’s always knowingly mangling Katya’s name and Brian could never figure out what to make of it. He always wants to correct him, but ultimately ends up deciding that he doesn’t really mind. He just worries, sometimes, that Alaska does it because he doesn’t care enough to get the name right. Then he chastises himself, because it’s just a name and Alaska does it to other people too. Billiam. Corntee. Noodles.

Then he chastises himself again for thinking that he’s close enough to Alaska to earn a term of endearment alongside his older friends.

Oblivious to his train of thought, Alaska goes on, “I was wondering if you’d mind rooming with me for the rest of the tour? I know you’re assigned with Adore and I’m supposed to be with Jinkx, and I love her, but in the last five cities those two have been hotboxing our room and I’d really rather stay away from all the weed. So maybe we can room, and they can room, and everyone’s happy. I guarantee I’ll stay out of your hair if you bring in trade.”

Brian is a bit dumbfounded. That’s the longest string of words Alaska’s ever said to him.

“Uh, sure,” he says. Alaska smiles in thanks, then goes back to short, shy, mechanical replies for the rest of the night. As if he had a quota for Words Spoken to Katya and he’s running over the limit.

Brian wonders why he said yes.

* * *

Hazy visions of someone lying unmoving on a filthy bathroom floor. Big blond mess of hair, face down on a pool of blood and puke. A claustrophobic sensation, walls closing in on the figure. Then suddenly it’s Justin lying on the floor, in his own vomit, unable to breathe. Unable to move. Unable to do anything. He can feel his heart pounding away thunderously, and the sound is up to his ears. It hurts. Something else. Someone’s yelling. 

_Laskalaskalaskalaskalaska!_

Justin wants to yell back. His mouth doesn’t move. His ears won’t stop pounding. His mom’s voice, softer–Justin, Justin, Justin. Then someone else. A chorus of someone elses, indistinct voices, growing louder by the second. _AlaskalaskalaskaLASKALASKA._ Part-cheering crowd, part-menacing clamor. _ALASKALASKALASKALASKA._ His mom’s voice is gone. The walls are too close. The mess of puke and blood is rising, swallowing him. The voices are multiplying. He’s going to burst. He’s going to drown. He’s going to die.

“Alaska!” A clear voice pierces through the confusion, and the bathroom walls shake loose. Justin’s eyes fly open and he’s not facedown on the bathroom floor after all. Katya’s face is hovering above his, yellowed by the lamplight on the bedside table. “Are you okay?”

He blinks in answer. No. No, wait–-yes? He can feel beads of sweat running down his temples even in the cold hotel room. Is he okay? Well, he’s alive.

“Nightmare. Sorry. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Katya nods, helping him up. “Do you need anything?”

“No, it’s fine. Sorry for waking you up. Was I loud?”

“Not really, I’m just a light sleeper.”

“Sorry,” Justin says again. It’s a little embarrassing. He doesn’t know Katya very well and this isn’t exactly a great way to start off their room-sharing stint. Sneaking a glance at the bedside clock, he sees that it’s 3:28 in the morning. “Thanks for waking me up. You should go back to sleep, though. Sorry about that.”

“Stop saying sorry.” Katya shakes his head.

“Sorry,” he says before he can catch himself.

Katya looks at him incredulously. “Seriously, stop it.”

“Okay, sorry,” Justin says pointedly with a grin. Katya rolls his eyes and laughs.

“Are you sure you’ll be fine?” Katya asks, moving back to his bed now, but settling down facing Alaska.

“Yeah. Just a bad dream.”

“Okay. Wake me up if you need anything,” he says, sounding unsure. He moves to flick the lamp off and whispers a soft goodnight. Justin feels uneasy. Could he have said anything in his sleep that would make Katya think he would need help?

“Um, Katya?” Justin speaks softly into the darkness.

“Yeah?”

“Was I saying anything in my sleep?”

“Well, yeah. Kind of. It was a bit weird. It was slurred and unclear, like you were saying it under your breath in between your moaning, but, um, you were saying your own name.”

It feels stupid to ask, but he does, “My name?”

“Yeah. Justin.”

“Oh,” he pauses, unsure of how to process the information. “Okay. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Alaska.”

Justin winces at the name as it sets off memories of the oppressive yelling in his nightmare. He burrows under his blankets, holding onto his mom’s voice saying “Justin, Justin, Justin, Justin…” as he lulls himself back into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Brian flicks the cigarette stub to the ground and stops himself from lighting another one up, remembering that it’s almost time to go back inside and put on his hair and his heels. Positively craving for another smoke, he digs his fingers into his palms to physically restrain himself. No time. And no good to do some more today.

He rests his head against the brick wall, jangling his cigarette necklace in the process. He’d seen so many fans recreate it for themselves, which is hugely flattering, but he’s rather unnerved by a particular girl from last night’s meet-and-greet. She couldn’t have been more than twelve, and there she was, a chain of fake cigarettes resting above her Katya shirt.

Not for the first time, Brian wonders if he’s made a mistake somewhere, in creating post-Drag Race Katya. So many people love him. Well, her.

Too many people, it feels like, sometimes.

“Hey Katya,” Alaska’s head pops from behind the door. “Peter’s looking for you. Adore wants to switch places, I think. She’s not feeling too good and wants to go on earlier.”

“Okay,” he says, making a move to stand up from the ground. Alaska holds out a hand to help him out. “Thanks.”

“You okay?” Alaska asks, his eyes lingering on the fingermarks on Brian’s palms.

“Yeah,” he shrugs as they make their way inside. He catches Alaska sneaking a glance at him, looking like he doesn’t believe him. But he also doesn’t push the matter any further. Brian doesn’t know whether that should make him feel grateful or brushed off.

* * *

True to his word, Justin stays out to let Katya have some privacy with his trade. It is two in the morning, and he reckons it’s really no time for coffee, but he didn’t want to stay in the club anymore. He stirs the now-lukewarm coffee and wishes he’d bought a pencil or a book. Something to keep him busy.

His phone lights up with another message–the fifth one tonight–from an unknown number. It was someone from the club he’d just left–was it Dom? Don? Justin had danced with him for a bit, and they’d exchanged numbers, but he didn’t really want to talk to the guy. At least not anymore, not after Dom or Don kept asking him if “any of y'all ever fucked each other in the workroom?” and “do you wanna come home with me? I have some K, we can have some fun.”

God forbid someone ask him out for a good old cup of coffee. Sex negotiable. Drag Race completely off the table. Drugs most definitely out of the question.

Another message. He almost deletes it right away, but sees just in time that it isn’t from a stranger. It’s from Katya, giving him an all-clear to go back to their room. He takes one last sip of his sad coffee and heads out.

Their room is too clean–-Katya didn’t just fix his own bed, he did Justin’s too. He flashes Katya an amused smile. “You didn’t have to clean up my side of the room, too, you know.”

“My therapist tells me I have a lot of issues and I overcompensate a lot. I’m working on it, but it’s hard,” Katya says with a frown. Justin pauses uncertainly, struggling to decide between apologizing or awkwardly ignoring what he said. Katya looks up at him and cackles. “I was kidding.”

“Ugh, I never know with you,” Justin groans, throwing a pillow at Katya, who’s bent over in laughter. “How was the session, though?”

Katya pouts a bit. “It was sad. He couldn’t get it up. I kept blowing him pretty valiantly, too, but nope, the member refused to cooperate with the team tonight. That’s the third time that’s happened to me.”

“I feel you, man,” Justin nods sadly. “So did you just kick him out?”

“He showed himself out, very embarrassed.”

“As he should be.”

“Thanks for staying out anyway. What did you get up to?”

He hesitates, but goes on, remembering Katya’s open admission of his difficult sobriety on national television. “Some guy kept trying to get me home to do some K with him, but being the adventurous spirit that I am, I hightailed it out of the club and went for some coffee.”

“Shit,” Katya grimaces. “I’ve been in a K-Hole once or twice. It was never my go-to, but it’s a pretty inviting memory. Good on you for skipping out.”

Justin is warmed by the honesty. He’d known it about Katya, of course, but it’s different to hear it in person. He regards Katya quietly–-struggling with sobriety just as he is, but in a manner more fun and bubbly and relatable than Justin will ever have the energy to be. “You’re doing pretty well yourself, Katya.”

“I’m trying,” Katya says with a smile, but without humor. Justin understands.

* * *

“Look, Katya, that’s strike one. You better be careful next time,” Peter intones definitively. Brian holds himself back from rolling his eyes, wondering for the nth time why he signed with Producer. He thought it would be the best option–they manage the biggest queens, after all. But fuck if they’re not a pain to work with–for?–sometimes. He made one joke onstage about the all-white touring cast, and now Peter’s on his ass about it.

“I didn’t call Producer racist,” Brian begins to explain. “It was just a joke about the tour.”

“A joke about the tour organized by Producer Entertainment, so it was very much a jab at the management,” Peter says sharply.

“I didn’t say anything the fans weren’t already saying themselves,” he reasons.

“Let the fans do their politicizing, then! But don’t turn around and bite the hand that feeds you just so you can echo fan sentiment!”

“I didn’t say it to echo fan sentiment, I pointed it out because it’s an entirely noticeable and unflatteringly suspicious fact,” he mutters while exasperatedly tugging his wig off.

“Watch it. Learn where your lines are,” Peter warns, turning around and leaving the dressing room before Brian could open his mouth. He runs a heavy hand across his face and sighs deeply.

“Katya?” Alaska peeks from the doorway. Brian waves him in. “I heard Peter yelling. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I think. I haven’t been fired yet. Strike one.”

“Was it about the Battle of the Aryans line?”

“Yeah, he’s not happy about it.”

“I would imagine,” Alaska says sympathetically, patting him awkwardly on the back before drawing his hand away. “I just wanna say I think it’s cool, what you did. What you do.”

Brian looks up with a surprised smile. “Really?”

“Yeah. I think it’s brave. I, uh, wrote political songs for Anus years ago, but they absolutely wouldn’t let me put them on the album. And I didn’t push much after the initial rejection. I’m too… cowed by the whole system. I don’t know what I’d do without it.”

“I get it,” Brian says. “It’s not like I’m revolting against them. I honestly don’t want to know what would happen if I reach strike three or whatever.”

Alaska nods, staring unseeingly into mirror, as if he’s talking to their reflections, rather than Brian. “I couldn’t be more grateful for them, really, but sometimes I also wonder about the directions I’ve had to steer Alaska away from to keep myself in line.”

Brian finds himself nodding along as Alaska continues, “And I wonder if it’s worth it. If a younger Justin would have approved of the way I’ve reshaped Alaska for public consumption. And I feel like I fail myself sometimes. And the fans, too.”

Brian thinks about twelve-year-olds and cigarettes. He reaches out and holds Alaska’s hand in silent understanding.

“Sorry,” Alaska says suddenly, as if surprised by Brian’s hand, but not withdrawing either. “This was your moment and I stole it from you.”

Brian laughs, then tones it down, but the smile won’t leave his face. “That did make me feel better, honestly. To know that I’m not alone in thinking that our management is kinda stifling. Hell, this whole Ru girl thing in general. It’s so confusing. Sometimes I wonder if I’m really even funny or if I’m just falling into pandering humor. There are so many factors to consider and I can’t make Katya respond to all of them.”

“Yeah, juggling between ages and genders and races and spreading yourself out too thin–”

“And being politically correct while being a parody yourself; and is it even still drag, if it’s just as capitalistically-driven as the things that we’re supposed to be parodying?”

“Yeah, it’s kinda fucked. It’s become such a… machine, now. With us Drag Race girls. And I know I’m implicit in it. And it keeps me up at night sometimes. The guilt. But we’ll figure it out, find a balance somehow,” Alaska says reassuringly, giving Brian’s hand a soft squeeze.

“It’s not just that, though—not just my drag career and my drag principles or whatever that I worry about. Like, sometimes I wonder where I even fit in the whole equation. Like I’m just Katya now all the time. Which is cool, and it’s fun, and I’m having the time of my life, but it also scares me because what happens if my career dries up and I have to go do something else, be something else? I… I don’t know how to not be Katya anymore.”

Alaska is nodding, as if to signal that he understands, but he doesn’t speak. Brian almost regrets spilling it all out like that on him. He’s dealt with being a Ru girl far longer than Brian has, and seems to be doing pretty damn fine for himself. Alaska probably thinks he’s stupid now, stupid and unfit to handle the demands of being a gay-famous D-lister.

“Have we ever been properly introduced?” Alaska suddenly asks. Brian stares back dumbly. Alaska brings up his hand for a handshake. “My name is Justin. I crossdress for a living and I like reading Buddhist literature.”

“Hi, Justin,” Brian smiles, shaking his hand. “My name is Brian. I also crossdress for a living and while I admire Buddhist philosophy, I’m more in tune with western existentialists, as the pretentious, privileged white artist that I am.”

Alaska—Justin, Brian corrects himself—tuts disapprovingly. “Don’t let those college philosophy courses get to you. But it’s okay. Yin and yang, Brian. We’ll work it out.”

* * *

Justin can feel the bass in him and around him, pounding through his ears and into his bloodstream, but also blooming from his stomach and spreading out to his fingertips. He’s completely sober, but something about the night has shot him up on a trip. Maybe it’s the music, maybe it’s the company, maybe it’s the fact that’s been laughing so hard ever since Brian pulled him up to the dancefloor–whatever it is, his head’s a little too light and his laugh is a little too loud as he trips on Brian’s feet and sends them both tumbling down to the sticky floor.

“Oh god, sorry dude,” he offers, but his apology is lost to the beginnings of a cackle. Brian is unable to stop laughing himself, and the pair of them lie on the floor quivering with giggles. He is sprawled fully on the ground, Brian’s legs tangled with his. The blond is lying on his side, torso twisted to face him.

“You’re hopeless,” Brian laughs.

“You were supposed to lead,” he whines and slaps Brian’s chest weakly.

“Lead in what? We weren’t fucking waltzing, girl. I can’t lead you to shake your ass. It has to come from within.”

“But I can’t dance!”

“You can. It’s just that your dancing is terrible.”

“But you love me anyway,” he grins triumphantly.

Brian sticks his tongue out in disgust, “Love is a strong word. I tolerate you.”

“Bitch,” he laughs, thumping at his chest again. Justin is surprised by his own touchiness, but he feels at ease with Brian in a way he never has before. He’s always hesitated really talking to him, because there was something about his honesty and bareness that Justin found terrifying. As if Justin already knew him just from seeing him on television or on his videos. And Justin was rather unused to that level of openness. Has actively shied away from it, even. Especially after Sharon.

So he had a difficult time dealing with Brian. Well, Katya, really. Katya’s a character, after all, even out of drag. Surely he can’t have laid all his cards on the table? But how should Justin factor in the unrelenting honesty? The brave way Katya peels his wounds open and offers them up–not for sympathy, ever, but just as a fact. Justin had been unable to asses where Katya’s lines lie.

He’s still not sure where those lines are, but something about being given the privilege of calling Brian by his real name had changed things. Made it easier for Justin to talk to him.

Brian’s head has settled down right beside his, and together they look up at the flashing lights in silence. The people around them are too drunk to care about two fools taking up precious dancefloor real estate, so they’ve been left alone so far. Justin feels the music change before he hears it, the bassline fading out completely into a generic acoustic chord progression. It sounds like it fits more in a coffee shop than a club, but the people around them start settling into couples and swaying along like it’s fucking senior prom.

“This is the corniest last call I’ve ever seen in my life,” Justin snorts.

“I would have thought you’d be the romantic type, honestly,” Brian observes.

“Well, I’m not opposed to romance,” he defends. “But romance deserves better songs than this white-guy-with-guitar drivel.”

“I suppose real romance deserves fucking ‘Pussy’?”

Justin laughs, “Are you coming for me, bitch?”

“Is that an invitation?”

Justin knows it’s a joke, but he glances at him inquiringly anyway. Brian’s face is unreadable. “I don’t know. Do you want it to be?”

Brian looks at him in surprise, and Justin almost regrets their train of conversation until the other boy opens his mouth, “Kind of. Yeah.”

They stare at each other, both unmoving. Justin doesn’t know how to proceed. Brian’s lips are parted, as if he’s still surprised by the turn of events and is currently trying very hard to process the information. He looks absolutely dumb, and Justin wants nothing more than to kiss him. So he does.

Brian stays still, and Justin hangs onto his lips awkwardly, quickly reeling their conversation back and trying to see if he misread anything along the way. Vaguely, he feels someone step on his sprawled leg, and he’s shaken out of his thoughts and back to the reality of Brian’s very soft, unmoving lips, and he promptly tears himself away.

“I’m, uh, sorry,” he mutters with a blush, pushing himself off of the ground. Brian doesn’t make a move to get up, but his eyes follow Justin up. He wants to kick himself. “We should, uh, probably get back to our booth. Get something to drink.”

He offers his hand out, uncertain if Brian would even want to take it. The blond blinks at him, then blinks at his hand, before finally reaching up for it to haul himself up.

“Look, Brian, I’m really sorry,” he starts, looking down at the ground. “I didn’t mean to force myself on you like that, I thought we were on the same page, but I was wrong and I’m really, really, fucking sorry.”

“Justin. Stop saying sorry,” Brian says. “Seriously.”

Justin looks up at him, confused. But Brian’s smiling, and Justin lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding in.

“You probably think I’m a bad kisser now,” Brian says. “We’re gonna have to correct that.”

Before he knows it, Brian’s lips are on his again. Moving, this time. Justin smiles into the kiss as he brings his arms around Brian’s waist. He can feel the other boy’s arms looping around his neck, and soon the rest of their bodies have aligned in the standard senior prom last dance position. Brian has started swaying them side to side, and he follows along surprisingly easily. The acoustic number has reached its uninspired bridge, the pseudo-indie vocals warbling annoyingly over the chords.

“This is so fucking corny,” he laughs against Brian’s lips. “Terrible conditions for our first kiss.”

“Mhmm,” Brian hums. “But you love it anyway.”


End file.
